


running into the sun

by kiden



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Road Trip, Unfortunate baseball analogies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiden/pseuds/kiden
Summary: There are other people Steve could ask. Sam or Nat. Even Clint would make more sense. It's not that they aren't friends - they are, they're good friends, hard won, fought for, worked on - it's just weird. They can live together and fight together, but Tony's not so sure a few weeks with just the two of them in a car is a good idea.It's definitely not a smart idea."Can you repeat that, please?"or: tony and steve go on a nice, soft road trip that brings them closer together.





	running into the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmyloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyloki/gifts).



When Steve laughs he throws his head back. It starts in his belly and works it's way up his chest, until he's grabbing at himself, his body vibrating, humming, until it pops like a bursting balloon from behind his teeth. His fair skin flushes, pink down the line of his neck and a bright red on his cheeks. And then he reaches out for Tony, in the driver's seat, sitting across from him in the booth of a diner, at the Soap Box Derby Hall of Fame. He reaches out and puts his warm hand on Tony's shoulder or chest, and the touch unlocks something inside him, something usually wound tight, until Tony starts laughing too.

Tony thinks, not for the very first time, it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. It makes his palms sweat.

The sky is so blue, bright and clear in every direction, and the same exact color of Steve's eyes.

-

It's a Tuesday, fresh off their latest run-in with the Wrecking Crew when Steve asks, and knocks Tony sideways.

There are other people Steve could ask. Sam or Nat. Even Clint would make more sense. It's not that they aren't friends - they are, they're _good_ friends, hard won, fought for, worked on - it's just weird. They can live together and fight together, but Tony's not so sure a few weeks with just the two of them in a car is a good idea.

It's definitely not a smart idea.

"Can you repeat that, please?"

Steve sighs and slumps. Tony slaps him between his shoulder blades, forcing him to stand up straight so he can continue fitting the material of his new suit around his ridiculously broad back. Under his hands, Steve takes a deep breath, expands and deflates, and Tony slaps him again. Like he could knock the words out of him.

"A road trip," he says, and the nape of his neck is as red as Tony's suit. "Since I woke up -"

"Defrosted."

" _Tony_ ," Steve sighs, but it's warm and fond.  It’s strange. “I’m not a brisket.”

“I don’t know,” Tony pats him on the shoulder before stepping away, tossing the new material onto his workbench. “Feels like Grade A American Beefcake.”

Steve ignores him in favor of steering Dum-E away from the new Go Big Boom arrows for Clint. Which is endearing and therefore annoying, so Tony ignores him just as hard, sliding behind his desk and manually inputting some figures just to look busy. Then he sends a text to Rhodey, just to say hi. And a text to Pepper, just to ask what his schedule looks like for the next few weeks.

Not that he’s considering anything.

"I think you should come with me," Steve says. He crosses his arms and uncrosses them and shifts his weight, and if Tony didn’t know better - which he does - he’d think Steve was nervous. Which he isn’t. "Get out of the workshop. Leave the suit. Look up from your computer."

"How hard did Garthwaite whack you in the head with that crowbar this time?" Tony asks. "FRIDAY, give me a full scan of Cap’s brain.”

"Just think about it, okay?" Steve says. He leaves before FRIDAY can scan him.

And Tony does think about it. For three days. It's on the fourth day, over breakfast, when Tony asks why, exactly, Steve won't even allow him to bring FRIDAY, _if_ he agrees to go, and he answers, "Because I thought it could just be you and me," that Tony knows he's going to say yes.

Steve had understood JARVIS was people too.  Tony’s always been a sucker for it.

-

It takes four days for Ultron to come up.  

The surprise isn’t that Steve insists on talking about it - Tony was expecting that - but the way he brings it up, the lilt of his voice, what he _says_ is so shocking he almost pulls the car over.  He doesn’t. But the Q8 does swerve when Tony briefly loses control of his body, and Steve laughs a little as he rights the wheel for him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I could have warned you.”

“You apologized,” Tony says dumbly. Because he feels dumb. He _is_ dumb.

“I’ve apologized to you before,” Steve says evenly. “I’ve apologized to you _about this_ before.”

“No, see, you apologized for the entire incident. As did I. Perfunctory. We had to for the team. For the newspapers. This is - can you repeat that?”

Steve turns down the music. Turns down Tony’s Welcome to the 21st Century, Capsicle Spotify playlist, that he made years ago with JARVIS. It’s in the middle of Here Comes the Sun. Steve turns it down, and turns towards Tony, and the sun is _setting_ , actually, and it’s unfair how cinematic it feels. How important Tony instinctively knows the moment is.

“I know what PTSD looks like. I should’ve - I should have saw what you were going through. Maybe we could have avoided the entire thing if you’d thought anyone was listening to you. Or seeing you.”

Tony keeps driving, his hands tight around the steering wheel to keep them still. The playlist shuffles through three more songs, but the car is so quiet he can hear the soft sound of night falling around them.  It’s long enough for him to think about Pepper, about the suits he made and destroyed, about being cold in the middle of nowhere, his brain - his most important asset - turning on him, strangling him to death in the snow.

But the anxiety attack he’s expecting never comes.  

Without light pollution, there are a million stars strewn across the sky, unblinking, being born and dying, and they still terrify him.  

He remembers Clint microwaving leftovers once.  Steve was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and pretending to read the Sunday New York Times.  When Clint slammed the door closed on the machine, Steve jumped and spilled the coffee across the front page. He’d clutched the mug so hard it shattered.

If he had access to FRIDAY he’d ask her the average temperature Steve kept his room at, those first years.  If it was higher than the rest of the Avengers’ living quarters.

“You too,” Tony says. He keeps his eyes on the road.

Steve gives a little questioning hum.

“Trauma,” he says in a rush, an embarrassed heat crawling up the back of his neck. “You too. What were we supposed to do? Sit around commiserating? There were bad guy asses to kick, businesses to run, missions to mission. You had planes to jump out of. I had suits to build. Terrorists to invite-”

Steve interrupts him with a sigh. He says, his voice low and gentle, “Tony, that’s exactly why I should have.”

He turns up the radio and Tony almost misses it when he says, “Neither one of us should have been on our own. That wasn’t coping.”

-

They stop at a little motel off the highway in Montana.  It’s more rundown than Tony typically prefers, but there’s something charming about it. The road trip experience. The vending machine outside their room only has eight packs of peanuts and one Twix left. If he had to guess, the place hasn’t seen a paying customer since 1995.

For once Steve falls asleep first.  After two weeks of watching him toss and turn, flip onto his back, onto his stomach, get up at 3am to go for a run, and then fall into bed to not sleep again, it’s a little unsettling to see him pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow.  It’s not like he’s choosing to watch Captain America sleep, but if Steve’s good at having insomnia Tony is a goddamn Olympic athlete.

He’s just more stationary about it.

Steve’s the only person Tony knows who looks older when he’s asleep. Like no amount of rest could ever shake away how tired he is. It’s frustrating he knows that now. That over the last few weeks he’s been learning things about Steve Rogers he’d desperately wanted to know about Captain America once.

And things he hadn’t _thought_ to want to know.

That he hums when he brushes his teeth. His preferred milkshake flavor is Strawberry and he understands the _brings all the boys to the yard_ reference. That if you get him talking - really, really going - that All-American bland, calculated way he speaks slips away and the _Brooklyn_ comes out of him.

Just _things_. All kinds of things Tony decided years ago he didn’t want to know, actually. Because knowing only ever complicated matters. Makes it difficult to ignore the pull in his gut, the feeling that drags him, always, always closer to Steve.

Tony rolls over to face the windows, putting his back to Steve and his _snoring,_ and shuts his eyes as tightly as possible. One more week, he thinks, one more week and they’ll get to Stark Los Angeles. Get separate rooms and then go separate ways, and Tony won’t have to think about any of this anymore.

The way he keeps falling and falling, and how he doesn’t even miss his suit.

-

“Do you believe in fate?” Steve asks.

They’re in Tennessee and Tony wants to say no, but can’t. Not honestly.

“Sure,” he says instead. Steve looks at him thoughtfully over the roof of the SUV until the gas pump beeps. “Why do you ask, dear?”

Steve shrugs, already turned away to replace the nozzle. “I know you said Howard looked, but I don’t think he was supposed to find me. I just -,” he shakes his head, “I think I’m where I was always meant to be.”

Tony doesn’t know what to say to that. Has no idea what to make of it. So instead he drums his hands on the roof of the car to grab Steve’s attention.

“Have I ever told you about Harley?”

-

In Oregon they go to the _drive-in,_ after Tony admits he’s never been and Steve finds that unacceptable. Steve parks backwards in the lot and pops open the hatch, folds down the backseats so they can stretch their legs out. It’s definitely a movie about people doing something and going somewhere and things are happening, but Tony couldn’t tell the details with a gun to his head.

Steve is pressed against him, shoulder and thigh and his left foot nudging against Tony’s right foot, like he’s asking something. Under any other circumstances Tony would know the answer, but Steve cannot _possibly_ be asking what that footwork is suggesting. But it feels nice to pretend. So Tony pretends.

When Steve falls asleep with his head resting on Tony’s shoulder, a warm wave of affection washes over him. The way it has before. The way it will again, no doubt.

Even if he wanted to tell him, Tony doesn’t know how. The way he loves Steve rolls over him in waves, pulls back and pushes forward like the tide, and he could drown in it. That he’s selfish and greedy and wants it all for himself. Wants to believe that Steve’s right, but only that fate kept him on ice all those years _for him, for them._  For this.

Some people you’re born to love, down in your bones, and they live inside you until you turn to ash.

-

“It’s been twenty-one days,” Tony says and adjusts his non-FRIDAYed sunglasses. “Just so you know. If you want to be proud, I mean.  Which would be very understandable if you are.”

They’re standing in front of the Grand Canyon, and it _is_ beautiful, and awesome, using the strictest definition of the word, but Tony is watching Steve look at it instead of looking at it directly. He’s seen it before. And he’s wondering if Steve would like it better from the air.  If they could do that thing they do sometimes, where Steve presses up against him and Iron Man gets to wrap an arm around him and they go. And Steve trusts Tony will never to drop him.

“I know,” Steve says, and there’s a little grin hidden at the corner of his mouth.  His voice is dry as a desert. “Three weeks without any tech, no FRIDAY, no suit. It’s impressive. I’m _am_ proud.”

Oh, Tony thinks. Yeah. _That too._

“Huh,” he says to himself, and then, “well, I’ll be damned.”

“That’s not what you meant,” Steve says, finally looking at him. “Okay. It’s been twenty-one days...?”

“We haven’t fought,” he says. “Figured by now you would’ve strangled me to death. I haven’t even tried to hit you with the car. Not once. Haven’t even thought about it.  It’s surprising.”

There’s something unnervingly sharp in Steve’s eyes. It’s a way he looks at Tony sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out where the trap is, where the safe places are for him to step in the middle of a minefield.  Tony’s seen that look a thousand times. Those eyes are usually looking out from behind a cowl.

And then it’s gone. Replaced by something bottomless and warm. The tense lines of his face fade away and are replaced by a relaxed smile. It’s only Tony’s wild imagination that makes it seem a little sad.

Steve turns away, back towards view. He says, “It’s not surprising.” His fingers brush against Tony’s, knuckles bumping and slotting together. Just for a moment. “I wish - we should have done this a long time ago.  We wouldn’t fight so much if we -”

“Weren’t so goddamn stubborn,” Tony finishes. “Hm.  I see you, Cap. It’s not always something I want to see, and sometimes I want to punch you in your perfect, righteous face. Standing next to you can make a tall man feel small. It’s infuriating.”

“Tony,” Steve breathes, and turns even further way. Until Tony can hardly see his face. He lowers his shaking head. “I’m not an _idea_. You are Iron Man, you’ve made that clear. I’m not always Captain America. I’m not the guy you think I am.”

“Yes you are,” Tony says and nudges him with his shoulder. “You made Captain America. Steve Rogers is the superhero. Not a good soldier, a good man, et cetera.”

Taking risks is what Tony does, so he brings his hand up to touch Steve’s hair.  Pushing his fingers through the soft blond strands. It’s getting long and he can nearly tuck it behind Steve’s ear.

“Sorry, Winghead,” he says softly. “You’re not going to convince me you’re just _some guy._ It’s a good sound bite, looks stellar on the news and Avengers propaganda. I’ll give you that. But nothing about you is average. You’re extraordinary, Steve.”

Steve turns to him, but his wide eyes are glued to Tony’s shoulder. It’s thrilling to see how hard he’s breathing, to see the blush spreading from his cheeks down the line of his neck and disappearing behind his overwashed hoodie. Three weeks ago, Tony would have been asking FRIDAY to scan _his_ brain if he’d even had a fleeting thought that Steve Rogers could be interested in him, like this. But Steve is flushed and very close and drags his teeth across his bottom lip, and yeah.

Yeah, it doesn’t take a genius. Even though Tony is a genius, and it helps.

But Steve doesn’t kiss him.  He takes a step back instead, despite how his body leans forward, and says, “You need to start understanding that I feel the same way about you. You’re not small next to me, Tony.”

It’s his turn to awkwardly heavy-breathe and blush, too stunned to stop Steve from walking away from him. Too slow to kiss him before the moment is gone.

-

“Did you mean what you said?”

Steve is sitting in the sunshine of Busch Stadium, wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans and a baseball cap, looking both like a regular guy and as if he’s waiting to shoot another Captain America PSA about sunscreen.  He’s drinking beer and eating nachos, and Tony suspects he’d be shouting at the home plate umpire if they hadn’t already been made as Captain America and Iron Man by the crowd. Next time they go to a game, Tony thinks, he’ll get a box. Just to give him - give them both - a little room to breathe.

“Mean what?”

Steve doesn’t look away from the field. It’s sort of endearing, really.  The St. Louis Cardinals are playing the Dodgers on this beautiful Saturday afternoon, and although Steve’s warmed up to The Mets since his own thawing, he’s still got a soft spot for the old home team.  And they’re behind by four at the bottom of the seventh.

“About fate,” Tony says. “That you believe you were always destined to wind up here.”

Of course Steve is a Mets fan. He’s the patron saint of underdogs and the little guy.

Tony’s thrown the first pitch at Yankee Stadium over ten times.

“Yeah,” Steve smiles, a really God honest smile directed at Tony, in front of the half-packed stadium and Major League Ball, ESPN, and all the cameras no doubt pointed at them, “I have more of a life here, now, than I ever did then. I’m happier.”

“Good,” Tony says, and looks away. “That’s good.”

At least they’re both pulling for the same hometown at the end of the day.

-

Steve pulls into another shabby motel just on the right side of California and Tony decides not to argue, even though they could easily drive through the night and hit Los Angeles before the sun. He’s not against drawing this out for another day.  Another week. Month. For as long as Steve feels like it.

Three weeks on the road and this is the very first time they’ve been confronted with, “One bed.”

“Hmm?” Steve hums loudly. He’s still outside, grabbing both their bags from the back of the truck.

“There’s only one bed,” Tony says again. With more emphasis.

Steve comes in and tosses the bags on the _exactly_ _one_ bed, and says, “Yeah, I asked for one bed. And there it is.”

“You asked for one bed? Bed. Singular bed. Not beds, plural. Bed.” Steve nods as he kicks off his sneakers. “Why would you ask for one singular bed?”

“Because,” Steve says, with his on-the-field Captain America voice, “I could hear your heart beating. I know you wanted to kiss me. And you can, if you still want to. I want you to kiss me, Tony. If you don’t anymore, I can -”

Something breaks. Not a sudden, unexpected snap, but the way something breaks under years of stress and a weight it was never built to carry. A slow bend that gives way.

Steve is pilant under his hands. Opens his mouth wide to let Tony in.  He yields, and gives, and opens, and makes it easy for Tony to do the same. And every sound he makes is small, even when it’s loud, and has meaning.

“Why?” Tony asks afterwards.

And Steve is pressed against him in the dark, breathing warmly against Tony’s shoulder. He says, with more honesty than Tony was expecting, “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it all out yet. But you make me feel like I belong here. You gave me a home, Shellhead. I didn’t even know I wanted one.”

He says, “I want to figure this out together.”

“You got it,” Tony says, and rolls over into him, Steve’s warm, welcoming body, for another kiss. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees, taking Tony’s face in his hands. “I have a lot to tell you.”

“I’m here,” Tony says between kisses. “I’m going to listen.”


End file.
